In the shallows of the bay this morninga white mast clanged in the wind,the hull sinking or sunk,someone's little pleasure boatdipping into barnacled obscurity.That's the way of things, I suppose,to disappear or breakor take on water and sink.But it's always a fresh sorrow,whether it's a boat, a life,or a nation.

It's windless.Islands we expect to see everydayare grim outlines.Coming down the hill in the morningfeels like filing into a bunker.Birds and dogsare confused in the orange lightand I'm praying for deliverancethough chances are it's futile and too late.

He's a hard sleeper just like his dad.When I say his name, touch his arm,he sleeptalks and says he's getting up.I sit on the bed's edge for another minute,straighten his twisted covers,look at him with the kind of lovehe'd squirm under if awake,the kind of longing I hadthat first morning,the room spinning around me,every cell in my trembling bodysaying, Thank You. Thank You.

But tonight, there's Emily flying to California for the year, and then who knows what after that. She's my person, as anyone who's read this blog even once probably knows. We are good at staying connected and it will take a hell of a lot more than this move to change that.

But still. Sad and it's all a little surreal. Nothing to do but write a poem. I love you, sister.

So Long

You'll get on the planeand text me when you land.I'll see you before Christmasand fill your virtual and actual mailboxes.

But you won't be leaving noteson my desk,walking my dog,sleeping in my houselike you are tonight,your breath, body, footfall,your "I am here"always making meinto the wildest, loveliestdream of myself.

End of the day, nothing written yet.If I have anything to say,it's thank you.Thank you for my life,thank you for this anger,geyser of revolt rising up in me,that part of me that won't sit down,cloud of witnesseswho won't be silenced,worker in the field,first responder in his boat,writer with her pen,refugee in his tent,loud Chorus of Loveon the bleakest, most sodden of plains,singing though there's every reasonnot to.

Whether it's because we built an arkwith blood moneyor happened to be bornon top of a hill,those of us on dry landhave always been smug,directing others not to be angryor to work harderor to have more faith.What's that you say?This bitter river comes for us?

Today my free tote bag came in the mail.The fridge is full of washed fruit and little yogurts.I manage to clear my desk,send a note to my aunt,have an idea for a poemor the urge to learn something--tennis or Spanish or pickle-making.Sparks in the dark, all of it,sticks and tinder, hope against hope,making fire in the cold.

He makes a big showof tweeting out reassurancesto hurricane victimswhile he pardonsthe racist sheriff.Here's the thing, mister:injustice for oneis suffering for all of us.Choosing sidesin this human family of oursspells genocide.

The Buddhist teachersays that when someone is dying,it's our chance to love them more.So it is with you, Earth,your firmament and your deep,the fragile pulsing globe of you,your revolutions and your seasons,and this lonesome longing to cradleall of you in my small arms,love you on your way to death.

My neighbor Laura makes oatmealfor anyone that ends up in her front yard.With solar glasses and pinhole projectors,this little band of dogs and humans is readyto see the moon eclipse the sunthen to see the sun come shining back again,ready to remember that our planet is still suspended,that we are still, mercifully, alive in the universe.

What seem to be fresh horrorsare really just old woundsthat have never stopped bleeding.Forgive mefor wanting to be relievedmore than I want to be awakened.

My friend Janel and I were talking last night about writing and poetry and how scattered we feel during this time of dramatic headlines. I haven't been writing much because I feel like I have nothing coherent to say. The little nuggets are not coming to me.

But there are millions of others who's been testifying no matter the headlines. And they have been doing it for centuries. It's going to take much more than Trump to shut them up.

So I've been reading Ta-Nehisi Coates. And Sherman Alexie. Roxanne Gay. Langston Hughes. Trying to immerse myself realities that aren't mine. Trying to get my white self seeing whiteness, otherness, and the construct of race the way Indians, immigrants, and slave-descendants have always seen them--as deliberate, engineered tools of oppression that concentrate money and power in the hands of the conquerors.

This education of mine has been going on for me since my early 20's when Yancey and I moved into a south Seattle neighborhood that's one of the most diverse zip codes in the country. We thought we'd become friends with everyone, maybe exchange some Spanish and Vietnamese phrases with neighbors, give our kids an education in diversity. It was all much, much harder than that, and my learning has never stopped. If you're white and wanting to start or further your education on race and privilege, you don't need to exploit people of color to do it! You don't need to find your few friends who are brown or black and ask them to educate you. You can do it yourself! This reading list prepared by Cristena Cleveland is a great start. My biggest piece of advice on this journey is to believe the witness of marginalized people in this country. They're not pulling your leg. They are not exaggerating. They're not looking for sympathy. They are voices crying out in the wilderness. And, as people with more privilege, it's our job as white folks to bring those voices into the mainstream. We can't afford to wait any longer.

So I'm going to be posting Little Poems for Dark Days. As many as I can for the foreseeable future. Hopefully every day (though you KNOW that won't happen) for as long as the Spirit moves me. I'm so inspired by Langston Hughes--his straightforward, social, political, playful, direct, revolutionary poems. This is an experiment for me in being less careful, less caught up in crafting a perfect little package, and more stream-of-consciousness, less adorned, quicker on the draw.

And thanks, Janel, for the cheerleading yesterday. Writers gotta write!